CORNDOG FOR HIRE
I was once a farmer, riding cows and milking
pigs - the barnyard was filled with idle hens.
There I stayed, for a while, with a hay-straw
in my teeth and a corn-cob pipe smoking my
ear - like corn, like stubble, like all that
fancy-plowed ground. I had my tractor
always set - Massey-Ferguson on the go.
As soon as it got chilly, small-game season
called, the rifles came off the wall. There are
men who hunt, and there are men who 'hunt'.
Somehow I was neither. Then I upped and
ran away - my heart took its season to all the
things of another land - like a Willa Cather
runabout, escaping Indiana, I met my mark
and I set my lance - and never looked back.
How was it later said : 'Bright lights, big city?'
No comments:
Post a Comment